A couple of days ago I was sent a Hypermedia article signed by Jorge Camacho in which he “interprets some little-known phrases by the Cuban writer —referring to José Martí!— with the aim of drawing attention to that dark, invisibilized side of his personality that neither Cuban institutions nor Cuban artists have shown any interest in exploring.”

I have a couple of friends named Ramses. I met them in Cuba, and both ended up in Spain. I’m not sure if they are still there, probably. But what continues to strike me is not the trajectory. How is it that I have two friends with the name of a pharaoh? How is this possible?
I tend to think it has to do with Ramses II—the pharaoh who ruled Pi-Ramesses (Nile Delta) between 1279 and 1213 BC. Western civilization had little awareness of his existence until the early seventeenth century.

I finally watched Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man. What stayed with me was not the film. It was the fact that people hate Barry Keoghan’s face, and that Barry Keoghan has begun to listen. He has even said that comments about his appearance on social media make him feel insecure and unsettled. I admit I am somewhat surprised by his fragility—or his “high sensitivity to sensory processing.” He is hardly a nobody. He enjoys fame, and everything money can buy. What it cannot buy belongs to the cost.

It takes only a glance at my MSN (Microsoft Start) homepage to think that every day someone discovers something that forces us to rewrite the history of humanity. I imagine historians exasperated, stalled again and again on the first page.
One of those stories—always amusing—claims that 'a set of geometric markings engraved between 34,000 and 45,000 years ago on small sculptures and tools is forcing a revision of the history of human communication.'

Leafing through the fall issue of Art in America, a brief note caught my attention: the publication’s response to a complaint from an art curator at a prestigious museum, who argued that, however impressive his credentials might appear, his working life was little short of a sentence.

I had the opportunity to read, in the latest issue of The Critic, an article on Sancta, the most recent work by Austrian choreographer and director Florentina Holzinger, one of the most radical figures in the contemporary European scene. It takes as its point of departure Sancta Susanna (1921–22) by Paul Hindemith—already scandalous in its time—and expands it into a hybrid scene somewhere between opera, performance, concert, and a ritual of quasi-satanic affiliation.

Science is beginning to entertain the idea that human hypocrisy may derive directly from primates. Knowing this does not make it better or worse, but it is worth keeping in mind that the brain arrives already equipped for it.
Facial expressions sit at the very center of social life, and yet scientists still do not fully understand how the brain produces them.

I cannot quite understand how Facebook’s algorithm works. For some reason, it has begun feeding me dozens of images of Ana de Armas. Perhaps because one day I lingered on a photograph of Anya Taylor-Joy; perhaps because I keep an archive—strictly for scientific purposes—of Ava Gardner and Marilyn Monroe; perhaps, in short, because I paused one second too long over a few of her images.

On my way home, on one of the trains at Miami Airport, I took this photograph. A passenger had left a sticker on one of the metal poles inside the carriage. Whoever it was—judging by the code—came from Guayaquil and carried it on their suitcase. The author, it would seem, now lives on these shores.